In the marbled silence of the Church of Luma, where candlelight flickered like fluttering shadows and the perfume of incense hung sweet and sharp in the air, a lone girl knelt before the altar.
Sister Elisabeth clasped her hands tightly, head bowed in reverence. Her lips moved silently, mouthing thanks to the goddess of light. Her simple white robes rippled gently with each breath, and her flaxen hair spilled over her shoulders like sunlight on marble.
"For all that I am," she whispered, "and all that I am yet to be, I thank you, blessed Luma. You guided me from the dark. You showed me the path. I am yours."
"Good evening, Sister Elisabeth."
The voice was soft, worn like the turning of parchment, yet warm and steady.
She turned her head with a start, quickly rising to her feet.
"Father Malcom!" She gave a hurried bow. "Ah—good evening to you too."
He chuckled quietly as he stepped forward. The elder priest embodied divine serenity. His long white robes, threaded with golden trim, rustled softly as he approached, and his eyes, deep and patient, sparkled with quiet joy.
"You've settled well into your role," he said, hands folded together in front of him.
She flushed slightly, then laughed shyly. "I suppose I have. It's thanks to you, Father. You gave me the chance to begin again. I'll always be grateful."
Malcom smiled. The kind of smile that warmed the coldest days.
"I merely opened the door, child. You chose to walk through it. You embraced the goddess's light on your own—and you've become a fine young woman for it."
A swell of pride rose in Elisabeth's chest. She turned her gaze back toward the altar, lips parting in soft response—
—but she never got the chance to speak.
A siren roared from somewhere outside—sharp, mechanical, urgent. The floor shuddered beneath their feet, and a distant explosion cracked through the sky. Dust cascaded from the cracked ceiling as the stained glass trembled in its frames.
Father Malcom's eyes widened. "What in the goddess' name—?"
The door burst open.
"Father! Sister!" A young acolyte stumbled in, panting and pale. "T-the northeastern gate! It's—there's fighting! Monsters! Cultists—!"
Malcom's voice cut through the panic. "Calm yourself. What of the district guard?"
"Overrun. I saw one of the priests get dragged away, and—" The boy froze, eyes wide with terror as a low roar echoed from outside. Closer now.
"Go," Malcom ordered firmly. "Evacuate through the cellar. Get to the south quarters."
"But—what about—?"
"I'll remain. Go!"
Elisabeth hesitated only for a heartbeat before grabbing the boy's arm. "Come on!"
They ran.
The church corridors were tight, narrow passageways that twisted between cloisters and small sanctuaries. As Elisabeth and the boy sprinted past flickering sconces, the cries from the outside grew louder, more desperate. A thick, choking smell of smoke curled down from the stairwell leading to the upper spires. The church wasn't just near the fight—it was caught in it.
They reached the hidden cellar door behind the altar and yanked it open. Dust and cool air rushed out, and the two descended quickly, boots echoing on stone.
Elisabeth's heart hammered in her chest. Her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, not just from the sprint, but from the weight of it all. The sacred place that had once felt eternal, untouchable—it was being torn apart.
They emerged from the back entrance into the alleys behind the church. The world was ablaze.
The streets were chaos. Smoke twisted from shattered homes like ghostly fingers. Screams echoed between crumbling walls. Shadowed figures with robes dark as ink danced through firelight, chanting and wielding unnatural powers. Magic beasts—twisted things with far too many limbs—rampaged like demons unleashed.
The church was no longer safe. Nowhere was.
Elisabeth clutched the hem of her habit to run faster, her breath ragged. A few people rushed past her, bloodied and desperate. She could hear the sound of swords clashing, spells colliding, and the panicked wails of the innocent caught in the crossfire.
They reached the edge of a collapsed square, the smoke thinning just enough to see flickers of light and flashes of magic in the distance. It was chaos, too dangerous to go forward together.
They ducked between buildings, trying to avoid the main streets. At one point they passed a man screaming for help, clutching a wound in his side. Elisabeth froze, torn, but the boy pulled her forward. There was no time.
Down another alley, Elisabeth paused, catching her breath. Her eyes scanned the chaos ahead—the ruined streets, the fleeing civilians, the monsters roaming unchecked. She turned to the acolyte beside her.
"Listen to me," she said firmly, gripping his shoulders. "You have to run. Find someone who can help. Don't look back."
His mouth opened in protest, but she gave him a slight push. "Go."
He hesitated—just for a second—then turned and disappeared into the smoke.
She turned into a narrower street to avoid a toppled cart and nearly collided with a cloaked man dragging a screaming civilian. The man turned to her with glowing red eyes, but before he could act, an arrow took him in the throat from somewhere above. Elisabeth didn't stop to question. She ran.
A scream cut through the air—a high, small cry. A child.
She skidded to a halt and turned.
Down a side alley, a little girl was curled up against a wall, sobbing. A creature—bulky and low to the ground, with gnarled limbs and fangs like knives—was stalking toward her.
Elisabeth didn't think.
"Hey! Over here!" she shouted, waving her arms. "Leave her alone!"
The monster turned with a guttural hiss and charged. Elisabeth rushed forward, scooping up the child just in time, but the creature was too fast.
Claws raked across her back and side. Pain exploded in her body.
She fell, shielding the girl, crying out in agony. Her vision blurred. Her breaths were short, ragged. The child screamed beneath her.
Please... please, goddess... if you hear me... save her. Save at least her.
The creature snarled and lunged. Elisabeth shut her eyes.
A clean, ringing slash split the air. The monster choked out a strangled growl before collapsing with a heavy, final thud.
Silence.
Pain slipped away from her, replaced by warmth—slow and steady, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Elisabeth blinked, eyes adjusting to the light.
At first, she thought she was seeing an angel.
But the shape sharpened into a man.
Tall. Still. Black hair falling over dark glasses that caught the light like mirrors. He knelt beside her, hand glowing with healing magic pressed gently against her ribs. The heat of it threaded through her nerves with quiet precision. His presence was calm—like the eye of a storm, absolute and unshakable.
Behind him lay the bodies of beasts—limbs twitching weakly, grotesque forms collapsed in heaps of broken bone and claw. Scattered among them, robed cultists lay motionless, robes smoldering, skulls cracked like fragile shells.
At his side stood a woman—tall, sharp-eyed, wearing a hat far too dramatic for battle. The wide brim sat crooked, a challenge to the destruction around them. A little girl clung to her leg, silent and wide-eyed, fists tight on the woman's coat.
The woman sighed, irritation pulling at her brow.
"Arden," she said sharply, scowling, "we don't have time to adopt strays."
Arden said nothing. He simply finished his spell.
The pain didn't vanish—it faded into a dull ache, distant and strange, like a memory blurred by time.
Elisabeth looked up at the man healing her. His hand hovered for a moment, then fell to his side, the glow retreating like a dying star behind her eyelids. For a moment, he seemed like a figure from a stained glass window—holy, still, carved from reverence and unfinished divinity. Not quite real. Not quite human.
His eyes didn't meet hers.
They scanned past her, to the ruined street beyond. His face unreadable. Not cruel, not kind. Somewhere else entirely—listening to a voice no one else could hear.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came.
Was this what divine intervention looked like?
Not soft. Not warm.
Just—inevitable. Unyielding.
She didn't feel chosen. Not special.
But something inside her—the ache she had carried in silence for years—softened.
She was not alone.
Not anymore.
The woman groaned, frustrated, and pointed down the street.
"More coming. Cultists. And their freaks."
Elisabeth turned—and froze.
A figure emerged into the flickering torchlight.
He stood taller than any man should, draped in pale, nearly white cultist robes that marked him as one of their high-ranking leaders. His skin was sickly and bone‑white, stretched tight over angular cheekbones, and a jagged burn scar ran from his temple down to a hardened lip. His hair was a shock of matted green, singed at the roots and drifting across his forehead like weeds in a swamp.
From his back sprouted four long, insectile blades—dark, jointed carapaces sharpened to cruel edges, each one twitching as if eager for blood. In his two human hands he held twin swords, their steel pulsing with a faint, corrupted glow. A crooked, unsettling grin split his half‑burnt face, as though he delighted in the ruin around them.
Around him, cultists in darker robes chanted in ragged unison, and malformed beasts skittered at his feet, sinew and bone knotted into living nightmares.
He spoke then, voice low and rough, dripping contempt. "Well, well. Arden — I wondered when you'd show up."
Arden said nothing.
Harm's grin widened, cold and cruel. "They call me Harm. Perhaps you know me as the one who orchestrated this chaos—the one who will ensure your world falls."
Lysandria tensed beside Arden. "That bastard..."
Harm's eyes burned with bitter resolve.
"You destroyed our god. You shattered everything we believed in. But this is far from over. We will rise from the ashes, stronger and more relentless than ever."
He extended those insectile blades jutting from his back—four cruel edges that caught the torchlight like blackened mirrors. "The empire's end will be our triumph."
Behind him, the malformed beasts stirred at his command. With a collective hiss, they lunged in a writhing tide.
Arden stepped forward.
There was no grand display. No wasted movement.
Light shimmered along his arms—mana pooling in silence, gathering like a tide before the crash.
A blur. A flash.
The first creature's chest caved in with a single blow, thrown back into the others like a ragdoll. Arden pivoted. Another monster leapt. He caught it midair and slammed it headfirst into the cobblestone, splinters of skull and ichor bursting outward. Each movement was clean. Precise. Devastating.
The cultists hesitated, their chants faltering as they witnessed Arden move like a storm wrapped in silence. They clutched their symbols, whispering prayers to their broken god, unsure whether to charge or flee.
Elisabeth crouched low behind a broken wall, heart hammering in her ears. He wasn't just fighting—he was unmaking them, one brutal motion at a time.
A sudden shout drew her gaze—two cultists had circled around while Arden battled the monsters, their blades aimed at her and the woman in the hat. Before Elisabeth could scream, fire erupted in a precise arc, scorching the air.
The woman stood with one arm raised, the remains of the spell fading from her fingertips. The smoldering bodies of the attackers dropped in a heap. Her face was calm, bored even, like she'd simply swatted flies.
Arden glanced over, nodded once—quick, approving.
"I'll take care of the weirdo," he said, already stepping forward, voice low and certain. "You take the others."
With that, he summoned a blade of shadow from the air, its edge pulsing like a heartbeat, and rushed Harm. The cult leader met him with a wild grin, dual blades raised high as their weapons clashed in a burst of unnatural light—magic and shadow erupting as steel clashed with sorcery, their duel carving sigils of chaos into the very air.
The world shrank to the space between blades.
Arden and Harm became a blur—steel ringing out in manic bursts, sparks flying as their weapons clashed mid-motion, faster than the eye could follow. Harm's four insectile blades sliced the air in perfect rhythm with the twin swords in his hands, six edges whirling together in a storm of steel. Each strike rang with a metallic scream, as if the blades themselves thirsted for blood.
Arden didn't retreat. Didn't blink.
Each strike he blocked was answered with one of his own—clean, deliberate, a rhythm carved from instinct and calculation. He moved like a man who had learned stillness in the heart of chaos, every step measured, every motion lean and lethal. His blade sang—not a warcry, but a hymn, sharp and holy. Shadows bloomed in its wake, striking with precision as Harm laughed like a man unraveling.
"Bleed for me!" Harm howled, a sweeping arc from all four blades coming down like a guillotine.
Arden vanished.
In a blink, he reappeared behind Harm, weaving through the sweep of those six blades like a wraith. Harm scarcely had time to twist before Arden's hilt drove into his gut—not a slash, not a stab, but a crushing blow delivered by the hilt, a blinding uppercut into Harm's stomach.
It wasn't elegant. It was brutal.
The sound that followed was like thunder given flesh.
Harm flew—those insect‑blades tearing free from his back with a sickening snap—his body hurled like a ragdoll down the avenue, shattering through one wall, then another, vanishing into rubble and dust. The air went still. The street groaned.
Elisabeth could only stare.
Lysandria's eyes burned with hate as she stepped forward, claws ready to strike, determined to make sure he was truly dead.
But before she could move another inch, a firm hand settled on her shoulder. Arden's touch was calm, steady, and with a soft shake of his head, he held her back.
"Don't," he said quietly, the weight behind his voice telling her to trust him.
She bit back the fury clawing at her throat and finally let herself be pulled away, her glare still fixed on the ruined spot where Harm had fallen.
The air shifted.
New chanting rose in the distance—hollow, desperate. Cultists emerged from the far end of the alley, wild-eyed and frantic. They didn't hesitate. They rushed forward, howling names not meant to be spoken, blades raised high, dragging their nightmarish beasts behind them.
Arden stepped in front of Elisabeth.
He didn't raise his sword. He didn't need to.
Beside him, Lysandria lifted one hand—and the world lit up.
A beam of silver fire arced through the street, splitting a charging beast clean in half. Another cultist fell screaming as shadow lances erupted beneath his feet, impaling him in an instant. The air hummed with pressure—too much magic, too fast, too precise.
Elisabeth scrambled to her feet, the little girl clinging to her arm. Together, they backed behind a crumbling wall as Arden and Lysandria moved forward, an unstoppable pair—grace and violence, holy and infernal, shadow and flame.
Then, as the last beast fell, the world trembled again.
From the smoke and ruin, shapes emerged—tall, armoured men with blackened visors and long magi-rifles, their uniforms trimmed in gold thread. They moved in silent formation, fanning out like clockwork guardians. Behind them came the true titans: automatons, massive and gleaming, carved in the image of knights. Not crude golems—but masterworks of living steel, powered by magi-cores that pulsed like hearts. They moved with grace, not lumbering force, their blades humming with unseen enchantments.
The cultists didn't stand a chance.
In less than a minute, the tide had turned.
The last screams echoed off the stone as the city began to settle—ash falling like snow, the haze lit by flickers of broken flame.
Elisabeth couldn't breathe. She couldn't speak.
But she could feel it.
She wasn't abandoned.
Not anymore.